


Bulletproof

by nyoka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyoka/pseuds/nyoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been weeks since Purgatory, but Dean still feels it on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> Follows 8.07. Originally posted [here](http://nyokafic.tumblr.com/post/49390047532/fic-bulletproof-dean-cas).

*

It’s been weeks since Purgatory, but Dean still feels it on his skin – the grit and the grime and the blood and the ash; the pure, aching _filth_ of it. Purgatory clings to him like something he can’t quite shake off, something no amount of time in the shower manages to wash away. It reminds Dean of the way he felt after Hell, when everything about his body felt _wrong_ , felt out of place: his skin too new, too itchy, too tight, too foreign to call his own.

During that first week back after Purgatory, Dean had showered two to three times a day. Usually in the middle of the night when Sam was fast asleep, because there were questions about Purgatory Dean still didn’t know how to answer when Sam asked, and there were ways of being on Earth that triggered something hot inside of Dean – all his insecurities maybe, or his fears that the world wasn’t a place he was meant to live in anymore. Like maybe he was meant to be back there in that pit of filth, wrestling with the rest of the monsters, killing because that’s all he’s ever been able to do half right anyway. There are times Dean looks in the mirror, and what he sees there is monstrous.

Some days in the shower Dean thinks he can see some of that clinging darkness washing away from his body, the coppery muck swirling down the drain. He expects the drain to clog from the sheer amount of this phantom filth, and he waits for the water to rise so high he’s drowning in it; some days he can’t manage to do anything as simple as take a shower without going back there.

Dean has to shake himself out of it; keep going for Sam’s sake. For everyone’s sake.

Tonight, Sam’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead, and Dean’s sitting up in bed watching the  _Twilight Zone_ , his lashes weighed-down and heavy-lidded as he struggles to stay awake. He’s still not used to sleeping; in Purgatory he only ever managed two or three hours at a time, unable to let his guard down long enough.

Dean palms at his eyes, yawns widely. They’re in a motel room somewhere on the outskirts of Crete, Iowa. Cas went out somewhere, Dean’s not sure where, didn’t know if he should ask, and he’s trying not to worry. Even though Cas said he’d stick around, that he wanted to work cases with them, the guy has a knack for up and disappearing on them, and it’s not something Dean’s ready to deal with again. Not yet. Not this soon. Not ever if Dean can help it.

Dean sighs, rubbing at his eyelids again. He feels itchy, too wound tight, too dirty with something he can’t name. He groans as he climbs out of bed, stumbling his way through the shadowy motel room toward the bathroom, almost tripping over his duffle bag and his brother’s gigantic He-Man-sized boots on the way there. He flips the bathroom light on and shuts the door quickly, so as not to wake Sammy. The light flickers a couple of times before it stays on with a soft buzz, and the bright florescent is harsh on his sleep-deprived eyes. Dean has to squint while he fumbles out of his clothes, throwing them on a pile on the floor where they join the clothes he took off earlier when he showered.

Dean turns the water on as hot as he thinks he can tolerate, and spends a moment watching the bathroom fill up with steam, clouding the mirrors so that he can’t see himself anymore. When he steps under the spray, he lets out a sigh of longed-for relief. It feels so damn good, the water beating against his tense shoulders, the droplets pounding away until all he feels is the pleasure of its warm touch, washing away the memories that pull at his mind more often than not at night, when the darkness of the midnight sky reminds him of the bruised skies of Purgatory.

The steaming, hot water of the shower is nothing like the icy cold waters of Purgatory’s lakes and rivers though, and the clean and familiar scent of Sam’s shower gel is nothing like the stink Dean carried around for months. Dean throws his head back under the spray, closes his eyes and runs the soap across his body, his hands moving over tight shoulder muscles, down along the planes of his abdomen. He watches the creamy suds slide down his thighs and calves, sink between his toes.

Sometimes Dean wants to forget what it was like to be covered in the blood of the things he hunted in Purgatory, but sometimes he doesn’t want to forget anything at all, because he knew what he was back there, he knew what he had to do, who he had to save. He lived every day with one goal in mind: find Cas, get them both home. It was simple: Dean had been a solider on a mission to recover his lost brother; he had been needed and necessary. But he had failed in that mission, and even now Dean feels the guilt burrowing deeper down into his bones.

Not for the first time, his thoughts turn to Castiel, and Dean thinks about how he’d felt the moment his friend came out of that bathroom yesterday, how his heart had stopped for a split second, how he’ been left _friggin’ speechless_. Dean remembers what Cas had looked like in Purgatory: smeared with dirt and blood, thick peach fuzz covering his chin. Dean wonders why Cas had never bothered to mojo himself clean back in Purgatory. The angel had worn the layers of Purgatory filth in the same ways Dean had, like some kind of armor, or maybe like a penance, the unavoidability reality that became a part of who they were there.

Dean sighs, shakes the water out of his eyes, slinging drops across the tile as he moves. He stands naked beneath the warm spray for another long moment, eyes closed, trying to stay relaxed, trying not to think about Cas. He’s trying so hard not to think about Cas, that he’s not even remotely surprised when he hears Castiel’s voice, interrupting his _not-thinking-about-Cas_ thoughts, coming at him in a deep rumble louder than even the thrumming of the water.

"Dean?"

"Jesus, Cas," Dean mumbles, pulling back the shower curtain and peering at the angel through the fog of steam. "Sneaking up on me in the shower, dude? You’ve got to be kidding me."

"I grew tired of waiting for you in the motel room," Castiel says, shoulders squared, his eyes meeting Dean’s with a soft promise of challenge. "Sam snores very loudly. And your showers never used to be this long before."

_Before._ Before Purgatory. Before Dean lost Cas to the all of those goddamn monster souls. Before the Leviathans rose out of Castiel’s body like some kind of disastrous BP oil spill. Before the lake. Before Emmanuel. Before the mental hospital. Before, when they used to do this sort of thing… _with_ each other. Shower together, sleep together, fuck and dream and fight together. They’d been something…serious for while there. Intense. Intimate. _Intensely intimate_.

Okay, so maybe they’d been more than a little crazy about each other.

In Purgatory, there hadn’t been much time to work through their disastrous history, so they came together again in all the ways they knew how to handle: a couple of frantic hand-jobs, some rushed, bruising kisses, and a few quick, dirty fumbles on the mud-and-dirt floor of the cave where Benny had left them alone to ‘work out their shit.’ There had never really been enough time though; they’d been too busy running for their lives, hiding out, plotting strategy. _Surviving._

But now.

Dean swallows, clears his throat, feeling gooseflesh rise on his arms. “Do you uh…do you wanna get in? While the water’s still hot? The pressure’s friggin’ amazing, man.”

Castiel’s expression turns dubious, but Dean’s continuing before Cas can even start to fight him on this: “Come on, you didn’t even take a real shower yesterday, did you? You just mojoed yourself back into shape. I mean, you look good, man, I’m not gonna lie. But you’ll _feel_ a hell of a lot better after spending some time under the spray, okay?”

Castiel eyes Dean for a long moment, a soft frown marring his features. “It has…been a long time,” he acknowledges, letting out a soft breath.

Too damn long, Dean thinks. He wonders if Cas remembers the last time they’d actually showered together – three days before Dean found out about Castiel’s deal with Crowley. Their last time together had been a frantic mess of frustration and not-talked-about panic, and of course Dean now understands why: Cas had been hiding a lot, and Dean had been trying to hide from his own worse fears, planted there by Sam and Bobby’s words of warning. There was probably a part of each of them back in those final moments that knew things were about to fall apart, spectacularly.

_Fuck_.

Dean swallows hard, looks Cas in the eye, searching his face. “So how ‘bout it then? I’m catching goosebumps with the curtain open. You coming?”

Cas looks back at Dean then, expression softening as he says, “Of course.”

Dean smirks and spends the next several moments watching Cas slide out of his clothes, his fresh black slacks and gleaming-white dress shirt dropped messily beside Dean’s own pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Cas untangles his blue tie slowly from his neck, and Dean can’t help but notice the long, familiar line of his throat, that one spot underneath his left ear that Dean used to suck on for hours at a time. Dean’s attention is caught by Castiel’s hands pausing at his boxers. Cas had stopped using mojo to get rid of his clothes around their second time together, after Dean had teased how the mojo took some of the fun out of it; in reality, Dean just enjoyed watching the slow perfection of Cas undressing. The way he moved, the hard lines of a solider still learning to be at home in his human skin. Right now Cas is all lean angles and corded muscles, the perfect curve of his hips and a hard cock pushing against the cotton of his boxers. Dean allows himself this: a moment to let his eyes roam across every inch of the living, breathing figure of Castiel before turning to catch the angel’s gaze.

Cas is such a tease too, loves to draw this part out. In fact, his eyes stay locked on Dean’s as he peels his midnight blue boxers off of his (ridiculous fucking) hips and down his muscled thighs, lifting first one leg and then the other as he steps out of them. Castiel’s dick hangs hard and thick between his legs, jutting out proudly from his body, and the sight of it sends pleasure and heat spiking through Dean. When Cas takes a step forward, Dean’s mind fills with memories of three years’ worth of crazy encounters and secret fumblings. They hadn’t had a clue what the hell they were doing back then. They probably still don’t. But Dean pulls the nylon shower curtain further open anyway and steps back into the far corner of the tub as Cas climbs in, settles himself under the showerhead, and lets the water roll over his body. Dean finds his eyes being pulled to this fine display: to the droplets following the line of Castiel’s spine nestled beside the tight muscles of his backside, to the droplets running down the round, sweet curve of his (friggin’ perfectly tight) ass, and finally to the droplets sliding into the dark patch of hair surrounding his cock. Dean shakes his head to keep his mind on the task at hand, and finally remembers to close the shower curtain, cocooning them in the small, heated tub together.

"Daphne used to purchase this sort of gelled hygiene product for me," Castiel comments while pulling at the body wash Dean had been using. He pops the top off the bottle and squirts some of it into his palm, lathering it between his fingers, sniffing it experimentally.

"Did you…um, do this with Daphne?" Dean asks, not sure how to broach the subject in a way that’s not completely indelicate. As far as Dean knows Cas had spoken to Daphne only once after he found out who he was, and it had been an awkward, hard conversation, to say the least.

Castiel’s eyes are sharp on Dean’s face; he frowns and asks, “Do you actually want me to answer that?”

"Well, um, actually _no_ ,” Dean snorts, turning around and dunking his head under the spray to hide his embarrassment; he lets the smooth pounding of the water work out the last of his kinks and aches.

It’s just a short moment before Cas pulls Dean by the arm from under the water and turns him around so that they’re facing each other again, no space between them, just the press of their warm, wet bodies. Even though Dean is tempted to play at resisting, tempted to make them work for this, he doesn’t really have it in him, not after everything. So he simply slides into Castiel’s arms with the sort of familiarity and ease that comes from years of loving this man — this crazy half-dream of a fathomless _creature_ — that he’s lost so many times he can’t even keep count anymore. _God, he’s still so whipped._

They slide together, chests pressing flush, and their arms stretching around each other’s shoulders. Castiel lifts his face, eyes catching Dean’s for a long, intense moment. “Maybe this was a good idea,” he whispers after a time, breath misting against Dean’s lips.

Dean leans forward so that their foreheads press together. He smiles and whispers back with a cheeky, “I sometimes get good ideas.”

Castiel’s fingertips brush the back of Dean’s neck. “On occasion.”

"You’re a hard one to please, buddy," Dean says on a soft tease.

"I’ve been told that," Castiel says, lips tugging into a soft smile.

They watch each other for another long, warm moment before Castiel’s breathing shudders and he confesses, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

Closing his eyes, Dean whispers, “Let’s not think about that, okay?” He opens his eyes to look at Cas pleadingly, and his chest feels too tight, his hands too unsteady.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean feels his hand settle against the back of his neck, squeezing tight and reassuring. Dean leans down and kisses the vulnerable stretch of Castiel’s throat, and Cas exhales loudly, like he’d been holding that breath in for far too long. Everything they are (have been and could be) together, feels centered right here, hot and present. Still so alive. Despite everything.

Dean sucks in another deep breath before pulling away; he has to clear his throat and shake his head to regain some semblance of composure. He picks up a bottle of shampoo and squeezes a dollop in his hands before bringing them together and sinking them into Castiel’s matted hair. Cas gives him one of his grumpy _I’m annoyed by everything you do_ looks, but Dean ignores him and sets to washing Castiel’s hair, slicking clumps of it up into tiny mohawks before twisting them around like devil’s horns. Castiel’s face eventually falls into an indulgent grin, so Dean teases his fingers down to his scalp, massaging deep and thoroughly.

Of course, Cas starts making these crazy little sounds that send Dean’s cock swelling, these soft purrs and deep-throated hums as Dean’s fingers tug and slick through his hair. Dean’s starting to think they’re both going to get off on Dean simply washing his hair, and that would probably be a little embarrassing, but then again Dean has a long list of embarrassing things that he and Cas have gotten off doing over the years (and no, Dean’s so not thinking about that time in Cedar Rapids with the maple syrup).

Fortunately Cas has the sense of mind to push them both back under the showerhead to rinse off before they embarrass themselves, growling a bit as he eases Dean close.

"What?" Dean says, laughing softly.

Cas squints at him, blinking water from his eyelashes. “You,” he rumbles, as if that says it all. And, hell, maybe it does.

“ _I_ am awesome,” Dean says back, shaking his head and splashing water every which way in emphasis.

Castiel rolls his eyes, angles his head under the spray to finish rinsing his hair out, a playful glower on his face the entire time. Dean’s smirking as he steps out from under the spray, wiping the water from his face. “And _I’m_ not even done yet,” he says, slicking up his hands with shower gel and reaching for Cas again. Castiel lips quirk softly as Dean pulls him in and begins to soap up the angel’s shoulders and forearms, letting his hands slide down Castiel’s back as he pulls him closer.

Surprisingly, Cas doesn’t put up a fight. He lets Dean do his work, his dark eyes following Dean’s every move as Dean picks up a washcloth and scrubs suds up and down along Castiel’s arms, down the smooth muscles of his chest, down into the dark, slick curls of his pubic hair. Dean takes his time because this is Cas, and he doesn’t know how long they’ll have this time, how long before everything goes to Hell again.

They take turns rinsing off afterward, standing under the spray’s warmth for a while, watching each other, taking each other in, catching each other’s gaze just because they can. Castiel’s eyes are deep blue in the dim light, and he smiles from time to time, his face transformed under the falling water. The next time they step out from under the spray, Cas pulls at Dean’s waist, drags Dean forward, and leans his forehead against Dean’s neck. He’s breathing in slow, warm puffs that make Dean’s heart skip a few beats.

"I’ve missed you," Cas says, his words a low, rough whisper against Dean’s neck, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the shower.

"Missed you more," Dean breathes out, shivering as he says it. He then leans down, presses his lips to Castiel’s smooth, wet ones. Cas opens up to Dean’s tongue with a soft, needy gasp, allowing Dean the opportunity to lick inside, to refamiliarize himself with the taste of him, the warm contours of his mouth. Cas kisses back so completely Dean momentarily forgets how to breathe.

As the kiss lengthens, their lips working slowly together, Cas runs a hand over Dean’s neck, pushing his fingers up into Dean’s hair, massaging his fingers through Dean’s scalp and along his temple. Cas pulls away only to grab the soap and work a washcloth along Dean’s body with surprising attention and expertise, running the soap into the tight muscles along Dean’s spine, along the small of his back, and settling the warm towel over Dean’s backside. Castiel’s fingers pause there, massaging into Dean’s asscheeks as he pulls Dean closer.

Dean makes a low sound, deep in his chest, caught somewhere between a moan and a growl at the feel of Castiel’s hands kneading into his flesh. “Cas, man,” he whispers roughly.

"Dean, I want…" Cas says, pausing to suck on Dean’s throat, to nibble gently at the skin, but it’s the slick-wet slide of Castiel’s hard cock pressed against his belly that catches all of Dean’s attention.

"Yeah, me too," Dean grunts out, understanding without Cas having to ask, and he’s shivering again despite the steam-thick heat of the shower. "How do you want me?" he adds on a soft whisper.

"Like this," Castiel says, twisting them both around and then rearranging Dean so that he’s facing the shower wall opposite the showerhead. Dean splays his arms out in front of him, hands pressing against the tiles, as Cas fits his hips to Dean’s ass.

"Like that?" Dean asks, arching his back so that his ass juts out just right while bracing his elbows on the shower wall.

"Yes," Cas rumbles, and when the angel moves, his cock slides slick and full down the crease of Dean’s ass.

Dean grunts, breathless, “Jesus fuck, Cas.” He shuts his eyes, drowning in the dizzying feel of their bodies lining up one against the other.

"You can’t begin to know…" Castiel murmurs, his hands circling Dean’s hipbones, grasping tight as he leans in to whisper the words against Dean’s neck, "How much I’ve missed you."

"Show me then," Dean says, arching back against Cas, who responds by pressing his cock, hot and demanding, along Dean’s cleft again, this time nudging down deeper between his thighs and balls.

"Oh, god," Dean mumbles, and the angel lets out a shaky, growling moan as he takes up a steady rhythm, thrusting his cock down into the slippery space between Dean’s legs over and over again.

"C’mon, c’mon, Cas," Dean begs, widening his legs even further.

"Patience," Cas pants, arching his hips up so that he can continue thrusting between Dean’s thighs, soap and water slicking the way.

Dean grunts in response, his fingers digging into the tile wall to brace himself, the feel of Castiel’s shaft riding his ass too much too soon, especially when Castiel’s long fingers start to move from Dean’s hips to the thick, soapy flesh of Dean’s asscheeks. Cas starts massaging and squeezing the flesh tightly as his cock nestles up against the cleft of Dean’s ass.

"Fuck," Dean exhales, spreading his legs wider as Castiel’s hands come up from behind to cup at Dean’s balls. Dean’s already so damn hard, the warm spray of the shower having already licked pleasantly at Dean’s cock, slid teasingly over his sack. One of Castiel’s hands begins to pull slippery and soft along Dean’s shaft, the thick length slickened with soap as the angel’s long, sudsy fingers slip low and jack him slowly.

Everything narrows down to the sound of them, cocooned together in the shower, their moans mixing with the pounding of the water as it rains over them. Dean’s lost to the hard slide of Castiel along his back, the pressure of his cockhead prodding lightly at Dean’s hole but never breaching, just sliding there, comfortably cradled between Dean’s cheeks. Castiel’s hand fisted around Dean’s cock is so damn good too, so tight, so perfect, Dean has to bite down to keep from coming too soon.

"Cas," Dean chokes out, arching back and shifting his legs further apart before placing his forehead and one of his arms against the wall, the tile slippery and cool against his skin. Tangling his free hand with Castiel’s where they’re wrapped around his cock, Dean speeds up their strokes, while Castiel’s hips began to speed up to match. Dean shuts his eyes, but he can’t stop from sputtering out, "Want you so bad, Cas. Missed you so bad."

Castiel’s lips touch the nape of Dean’s neck, and he’s mumbling words Dean can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter in the moment because Castiel starts working him even faster then, and the heat inside of Dean is flaring up, sharp and hot and brilliant, sparking like they both could catch fire.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas gasps out. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he murmurs on repeat, his thrusts slowing, his rhythm faltering.

"I need you, Cas," Dean groans, his voice going deep and low as the length of Castiel’s cock presses hard into the sensitive skin just below his balls, teasing at his hole before pulling away.

Cas pushes his cock down between Dean’s body again in several long, slow plunges, as his fingers continue to flex around Dean’s own shaft, stroking, tugging, bringing Dean right to the edge and over.

Dean’s hips stutter a few times before he stills, his climax taking him fast as he jerks and spurts over his and Castiel’s fists, the force of it racking through his body. He gasps, shaking, eyes sliding shut as Castiel’s hips snap forward sharply, and then he’s coming too, shooting hot spurts over Dean’s ass, strings of come trickling along Dean’s crack, sliding thick down between Dean’s thighs. The feel of it, of Cas marking him in this way, _fuck fuck fuck_.

"Sonofabitch," Dean says with heaving breaths, his entire body shaking.

When Cas slides his hands around Dean’s hips, he rocks forward until they’re pressed together again, his front to Dean’s back. They then move under the spray for long moments, washing each other off slowly, and Dean feels like he’s drowning in Cas, the feel of the angel everywhere around him, the smell of him so thick in the steamy tub.

After a time, Castiel’s warm, wet hands slide over Dean’s arms, turning him around, and Dean follows willingly. He sucks in a breath, shivering at the way Cas explores him as he slips his fingers over Dean’s skin, taking his time like he’s trying to relearn Dean too. Castiel’s hands run smooth over the scars on Dean’s torso. The fresher ones from Purgatory are still pink and soft, but the older scars have gone pale, fading with time.

"You should let me heal these," Cas says quietly, fingers pressed against a crescent-shaped scar on Dean’s hip. That one was a present from a Leviathan a few weeks into Dean’s stint in Purgatory.

"Nah, I want to remember," Dean says, shrugging, words heavy. "Everything."

"Dean," Cas says lowly, his voice rolling like a question Dean’s not sure how to answer.

So Dean answers by pulling Cas into a kiss, and that’s it for that. One open-mouthed kiss after another, their tongues sliding between wet lips, hands rolling over slick flesh. They’re sighing into each other’s mouths as the spray hits their faces, drops of water rolling off their cheeks like tears. Dean laps at the droplets streaming down Castiel’s neck before planting kisses along Castiel’s cheek. Castiel’s hands are at Dean’s hips, thumbs kneading deep into Dean’s hipbones. For a long time, the world is reduced to this: the warm, falling water, their uneven breaths and slippery skin, heartbeats locked in tandem.

They pull at each other under the spray until they both end up laughing, water cascading off of them, streaming off their backs, falling from their hair. Dean’s laughing so hard because goddammit he’s missed this son-of-a-bitch. He’s missed the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch, the awkward way he does everything.

"Stay," Dean breathes against his best friend’s mouth, curling a hand around Castiel’s neck and pulling him in for yet another kiss. Cas makes an answering noise that sounds a lot like Dean’s name, fisting his hands in Dean’s spiky wet hair and pulling Dean closer.

The shower’s long gone cool by now, but for the first time in a while, Dean feels warm. He feels clean. He feels like he belongs in his own body, like maybe there’s still a place for him here after all. Maybe for Cas too.

"I may have to leave again," Castiel says after a long moment, and there’s something in his face that’s haunted, _hunted_ almost, like there’s a million things playing out in that freaky angel head of his, things that Dean knows can’t all be good.

"Stay just for now then," Dean manages to breathe out, his voice rolling like a forgotten prayer in the wet, heated air. "For as long as you think you can." Dean feels Castiel trembling, his fingers digging into Dean’s skin where he holds on to his waist.

Cas looks up at Dean, and Dean slides his hand up to hold the back of Castiel’s neck, kisses him softly along his chin. “We’ve gotten this far haven’t we Cas?” he whispers. “What do we have to lose?”

"Everything," Castiel says before he’s kissing Dean again, rough and desperate and consuming, and Dean knows that is far from an answer, and it stinks of all the shit he doesn’t want to think about, but he can’t stop himself from falling forward, hands lost in the warm depths of Castiel’s body.

God, Dean hopes Sam doesn’t wake up and need the bathroom anytime soon.

_-fin-_


End file.
